


Remembrance

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, Masturbation, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Present Tense, Sexual Content, The latter characters are just mentioned, oneshots, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Oneshots of remembrance, from Villanelle and Eve's perspectives.





	1. Tokens

**Author's Note:**

> These were written for some friends. I hope you all enjoy them too!   
> Kate/Alice xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parallel between clothing items.

**2010**

You stole it from Anna’s wardrobe while she was sleeping. You didn’t have to worry too much about the rattling of the hangers or the rustle of the other clothes as they impacted with each other; she was a sound sleeper, more so when exhausted. The shirt was an older one, but a little nicer than her others. It was black, a color you didn’t often see on her. Before you took it, hanger and all, and stuffed it into your satchel, you raised the sleeve of it to your nose and inhaled its scent. A trace of dust lingered in the fabric, but it still smelled like her. You figured she wore it sparingly, that she wouldn’t miss it much, and so you took it; not to have as your own but as a token of remembrance.

            You put the clothes back into place, shut the wardrobe door, and took your own leave, Anna sleeping soundly on, her face pressed into her pillow instead of between your shoulder blades.

 

            For several nights afterwards you lay in bed with the shirt draped over you, another blanket, pressing the fabric against your nose while your free hand worked desperately between your thighs, your mind conjuring memories—the feel of Anna’s lips against your own, her sounds of pleasure, her body gladly at your mercy—and the things you wanted about her, wanted to do to her, wanted her to do to you. She’d have to want it first, you knew; she’d have to say she wanted to try. And even then, she’d still be bending to your will.

            Outside the door were your roommates’ footsteps, their voices carrying drunkenly through the tiny apartment. You shut your eyes and imagined you were in Anna’s bed, doing this, that the footsteps were Anna making her way to the bedroom. You wondered what would happen if she caught you, if she’d turn her back in shame, her face coloring tomato red, or if she’d freeze and watch you shudder, her look of horror melting reluctantly, quickly, into desire.

            You muffled your moans with the shirt.

            When the aftershocks subsided, you sank into the mattress. The imagined version of you held out her clean hand to Anna, who took it, sat on the edge of the bed; she ran a thumb over Anna’s lip, and then slid a wet finger over the same path, inviting her to lick them clean.

 

**2018**

Eve Polastri’s zebra scarf is a very pretty green. The color of a meadow. You keep it wrapped around your neck even after it’s been wrapped around other necks—Pamela in Berlin, Lyra in Cardiff, Janie in Sevilla—so that Eve’s scent is close to you. You are careful not to wear it in public. City smells would only ruin it.

            “I knew you liked leopard prints,” Konstantin remarks once, when he’s dropping in for a checkup, “but zebras?”

            You finger the fabric. “I thought the color was nice,” you say. “Brings out my lovely highlights.”

            The scarf has a home in your wardrobe, hanging right in the middle between an Egyptian cotton robe and a silk kimono. You try not to take it out too much, try not to think about a time when it was clinging to Eve’s neck, kissing her hair, but somehow it calls to you and you snatch it without thinking, stare at it, your mind projecting back to Berlin, to the moment you saw Eve waiting for her train, wearing the dress she’d bought at the store, her legs covered by pantyhose. You think she’d kick her heels off, shed her jacket, sit on your bed, let you kneel in front of her so that you could slip the hose from her legs. You’d knead her calves. Kiss up her shins. Nibble softly at the tendon at the back of her knee. Or maybe you’d bury your face in her neck first, smell the skin there, taste it with lips and tongue while your fingers burrowed in her inky hair…


	2. Like Cracks in Creme Brulee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation happens in Villanelle's bathtub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, the rating has been upped because of this chapter. It contains breathplay.

“Nice of you to finally join me.”

            Villanelle was in the bath, which seemed to be even more extravagant than the massive room Eve had just walked through. The tub was large enough for two, filled with bubbles that were close to spilling over, underneath which was the rest of Villanelle’s lean body. Her honey hair was tied into a high bun, and the arm that dangled over the edge of the tub held a small bowl of crème brûlée. The spoon she held in the other hand, like a movie star with a cigarette. It was, Eve thought, unfair how attractive she was.

            “I know I’m beautiful, Eve,” Villanelle continued, looking slightly amused now, “but it’s no fun if you’re not going to talk.”

            “Where… Where have you come from?” Eve managed. She’d been with Villanelle before, had slept with her by now, seen her naked, yet still that nervousness was there.

            Villanelle raised the bowl to chin level, scooped a bite of the dessert into her mouth. “Downtown,” she replied around the bite. And in the light filtering from the skylight above the tub, Eve saw streaks of blood on the right side of Villanelle’s face, close to the shadows of her hairline. Her stomach twisted in an excited way, her heart leaping with it too. _She’s come back from killing someone._    

            “Who was it?”

            “Are you going to get in with me?”

            “Who—?” She cut herself off, staring at Villanelle, struck dumb by the blatancy of the question. Villanelle’s demeanor was calm but there was expectancy on her face. Eve studied the bubbles, the warm sunlight-spotlight, thinking of what hot water lay underneath those bubbles, and with a sigh of finality, she kicked off her heels, took off her jacket, stripped out of her collared work shirt, her tweed skirt and pantyhose and underwear. Villanelle’s chest expanded with a slow breath as Eve slipped carefully into the water. Eve sighed at the heat of it, at the lavender-vanilla bubbles. She said, “I see why you like these so much.”

            “I find it’s good for mental recalibration,” Villanelle said.

            “And eating dessert in.”

            “You want some?”

            “It would be a sin not to eat that expensive dessert,” Eve said, and Villanelle handed over the crème brûlée, amusement tugging at her mouth. The first taste was an unbelievably rich vanilla, but perfectly balanced with the caramelized sugar, already cracked much earlier by Villanelle’s spoon.

            “Have the rest,” Villanelle told her with a wave of a hand.

            Eve finished the custard dessert in a few large bites and set the bowl aside on the marble floor. She leaned her head against the tub, shifting her legs, brushing Villanelle’s smooth one with the top of her foot. “Are you gonna tell me who it was?” she asked.

            “Nobody you know.”

            If she wasn’t willing to give a name, perhaps there were other things. Eve shut her eyes to keep from staring at that beautiful, deadly, bloody face. “Tell me how you did it.”

            The water shifted as Villanelle did. Eve heard her sigh; it wasn’t in displeasure. “Used a knife. Stabbed him in both lungs. You know the sound the McFlurry machine makes when it’s out? He sounded like that.”

            Eve could imagine it. Villanelle, silver in hand, plunging it into a chest and painting with blood, watching the fear shine in his eyes, his desperate breathing and attempt to escape—would he be crawling away from her?—and finally, his collapse. “Brutal of you,” Eve said, picturing, now, Villanelle’s gaze, eyes alight, eager, taking in the death like she was watching another sort of ecstasy.

            “Not as efficient,” Villanelle said, “but it does the trick.”

            “Why do you like to watch death?”

            Eve prepared herself for some snarky reply, something sexual, but there was thought behind Villanelle’s silence. She shifted again and their legs touched, stayed touching. Villanelle said, “The thrill of it.”

            “What does it feel like?”

            “The way you feel when I have you on the precipice.”

            High, Eve thought. Strung tight, excitement overflowing, waiting for the inevitable crash that was orgasm. “Okay,” she said.

            “Don’t tell me that was too much.”

            “You really need to learn to tell the differences between my _okays_ ,” Eve said, a laugh bubbling in her chest. She felt fingers gracing her ankle, their texture rough from being in the water god knows how long.

            “I know a few,” Villanelle said quietly. “That one, for example, was the thoughtful one.” The fingers turned into a hand and slid to her shin just as Villanelle scooted forward. Bubbles kissed Eve’s neck.

            Eve hummed. “How many people have you killed?”

            “Close to seventy, by now.”

            “Do you have a favorite?”

            “Are we playing Twenty Questions?” Villanelle asked. Opening her eyes was gazing at art with amusement and a strange emotion dancing on her face. “We can play, Eve, if you make it fair.”

            “Fine,” Eve said, sitting up straighter. “Do you have a favorite?”

            There were, Eve realized, a lot of options to sift through, many memories to recall. Would it be her very first—Max? The messy castration by an inexperienced but determined hand? Or someone later? Someone she was more creative with?

            Villanelle said, “I don’t have a favorite. But that Greco scores pretty high. Did you like the hairpin?”

            “It was very creative,” Eve admitted. Crime scene photos resurfaced, an image of Villanelle plunging the thing into Greco’s eye. One of her subtler kills. Villanelle was looking pleased, a cat who’d just been scratched behind its ears.

            “I have a secret about that one.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “I had to hide in a suitcase.”

            Eve laughed. A real laugh, coming up from the base of her chest. “I didn’t know you were flexible.”

            Villanelle’s hand slid higher, to her knee; Eve’s heart stilled. “I could show you,” Villanelle said, “if you’d like.”

            Eve swallowed, eyes darting to where she and Villanelle were joined, still hidden underneath bubbles.

            Villanelle’s question was soft. “What was it like growing up in Connecticut?”

            Eve felt her face color. _Of course_ Villanelle had read through her file. It wasn’t surprising, but it was. It took a moment to get over the initial shock but once it did, she found strings were tugging her mouth up into a smile. “It was very green. A lot of lakes. Forest hikes. Sailboats in the summer.” She remembered her father clearly on those summer days, his white board shorts, his collared shirts and sandals, teaching her to hoist the sail. But what else could she say about a place that hadn’t been a part of her for many years?

            Villanelle’s face was a soft, unreadable mask, the look a strange one, like she was affected somehow by Eve’s answer. It hardened, however, when Eve asked, “What about where you grew up?”

            Villanelle’s hand retreated from her knee, slid back down to her shin. “I’m bored of this now,” she said. “I’ve been thinking of giving you an orgasm for the last half hour.”

            Heat spread through her, all the way down to her toes. Eve stuttered, “W-What would be more fun?”

            Villanelle sighed, a dramatic little sigh, repeated “Fun,” trailing off with it, her thumb stroking Eve’s shin in a caress. Then, “A guessing game. If you’re right, I’ll let you know.”

            “And if you’re right about me?”

            “You’ll find out.” She sat back, perky. “You first, then.”

            What do I want to know about Villanelle’s life? Eve thought. Her feelings, her childhood, her teenage years, the first kill that sparked a fascination…

            “You had a first crush,” Eve said, and then, when Villanelle’s eyes steeled, she added quickly, “Not… Not Anna. I mean before.”

            “I suppose,” Villanelle said at last. “She was the only one who’d laugh at my stupid comments.” Her hand slid higher, back to Eve’s knee. A correct guess. She reached for the tap and turned it on, adding more hot water. Then she said, “You think about me when you masturbate.”

            Eve sighed, her head falling back against the tub, eyes on the skylight. Above it was a blue sky, clouds like cotton balls. Villanelle’s hand moved higher and she moved closer. Eve swallowed, mumbled, “We’re not talking about that.” She chewed her lip, Villanelle’s earlier words emerging from the dark corners of her brain and into the light. _I’ve been thinking of giving you an orgasm for the last half hour._ She said, “You like to worship me.”

            Again there was that slow breath. Villanelle said nothing, but said everything with moving her hand higher, onto Eve’s thigh now, close to the mark she’d made with a knife so long ago, lifetimes ago, before she even knew who Villanelle was.

            Villanelle said, “You like that I masturbate about you.”

            Eve scoffed. “That doesn’t count.” But still that hand moved higher and even though she wasn’t falling, Eve gripped the edges of the tub to steady herself. And Villanelle was closer now, her eyes dark, focused.

            “Finding out a younger woman is getting off to you,” said Villanelle, fingers stroking the inside of Eve’s thigh, “is a great ego boost.”

            Somehow the damn asshole was right. The first time she’d admitted as much to Eve, Eve had said it wasn’t too much, and now she realized why. It was _flattering._ She licked her lips, nodded, rendered speechless.

            At last, Villanelle reached for her with her free hand, cupping her face. “You want me to kiss you.”

            And Eve took Villanelle’s face in her hands and closed the distance herself. Water sloshed over the side, the bubbles spreading, white, lavender-vanilla blood. It was perfectly sloppy, filled with sighs, soft, wanting sounds. Eve’s hands slid from Villanelle’s face to the sides of her neck, squeezing softly, and it was Villanelle who whimpered, who took Eve’s lip between her teeth. Eve squeezed harder, the reaction giving her confidence, and Villanelle moaned, kissed Eve with more force.

            “No,” she said, when Eve moved her hands to explore Villanelle’s body, “keep doing that.”

 

            She had Villanelle underneath her, on Villanelle’s outrageously large bed, with its grey sheets and shell pink comforter, fingers squeezing the sides of her throat, the other hand between her trembling thighs. Villanelle’s skin glistened in the afternoon light filtering through the curtains; and her eyes, those intoxicating things, were black glass, her enjoyment clearly visible, but looking up at Eve as if she should take in every moment, else she’d forget it seconds after it ended.

            “Eve,” she moaned, a whisper because of Eve’s fingers on her neck. “Eve.”

            “God,” Eve said, leaning to kiss her, absorb her moans, the sharp inhale of breath when Eve released her.

            “Don’t—Don’t stop, Eve…”

            When she came, it was with Eve’s name slipping past her tongue, like she was in pain. She shuddered, trembled, for minutes, it seemed. She collapsed heavily onto the pillows, eyes closed, throat bared, offering the new red marks up to Eve’s lips.


	3. Voyeur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle drops in only to find things aren't how she planned.

Her intent had been to surprise Eve. Drop in, make her jump—at least a little—talk over a cooked dinner and wine, fuck her afterwards—or let Eve do the fucking. Perhaps, Villanelle thinks now, approaching Eve’s bedroom, she should’ve brought flowers. Daffodils. Or roses. Or sunflowers. But she has no such thing. Doesn’t even have an expensive gift for Eve.

            She slows her steps the closer she gets to Eve’s door, and they stop when her ears pick up noise from the bedroom’s interior. Heavy breathing. The slight, soft rustle of sheets. Eve moaning. The acid rises quickly, jealousy and anger converging into one single emotion. Eve can fuck who she likes. Villanelle knows this. She’d just prefer it if it was herself. But, she realizes when she bows to the door, there is no creaking headboard, no second voice. Her suspicions are confirmed by a shudder, followed quickly by a whispered, desperate moan,

            “Villanelle.”

            She leans her head against the doorframe, thoughts rushing, everything ignited, trying to see through the cracked door but there’s only a glimpse of carpet, the corner of a dresser and the various items scattered on it, a hill of clothes next to the hamper instead of in it.

            Villanelle shuts her eyes, listens, and sinks softly to the floor. She can only stand to listen to Eve’s desperation, her chants—“Yes, baby… Fuck…”—for so long before she unzips her own jeans, slides a hand inside them. She pretends she’s there in Eve’s bed, her face buried between Eve’s thighs. She shudders, muffles the moan with a firm hand over her mouth.

            “Fuck,” says Eve. “Right there, right there, don’t stop…”

            I won’t, Villanelle thinks, her movements quick and sharp. I won’t.

            Eve comes.

            She follows half a minute later.  


	4. It Settles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the results, every word she’d told Villanelle while sitting on her ridiculously comfortable bed was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter. It's not. There's two more after this one. I blame my wonderful groupchat for giving me these ideas to work with! This one is more experimental so if the writing seems a little frantic, that's why. Thank you, as always, for your readership and love xx

She’d grabbed the school photograph of Oksana from Anna’s (rather extensive) collection without much thought and had, frankly, forgotten about it until she’d stumbled upon it weeks later, when Villanelle dropped off the radar, when the stabbing was still fresh on her mind and the blood washed from her hands. Eve studied that photograph, meditated on it, taking in the dark hair, the smile, the eyes, the clothes that screamed schoolgirl and not richgirl. (Sweater, slacks, button-up shirt.) Who are you? she asked it often. Are you still there?

            Despite the results, every word she’d told Villanelle while sitting on her ridiculously comfortable bed was true. She thought about her all the time. She wanted to know everything, starting with the photograph, the things that came before, and after. She stared at it until it seemed to move, to project inside her brain and play her a home movie of Oksana’s life at the school. She was in the library one moment, the classroom the next, and various events Eve imagined she was forced to go to. And she was with Anna. At the school, the library. At Anna’s dark, yellow apartment that, back then, was warm and full of life, before a sickness had settled over it. They read books and papers, scratched things on printouts and notebook paper, shook their heads, shared intimate glances that held a language all their own.

             And their sex, when they had it, was it the passionate sort? Angry? Desperate? Perhaps at first, Eve thought. Inevitably, things had changed. Anna may have hated Oksana for her murder of Max but there had been something tender about her confession, her description, of Oksana. In her voice and her eyes and even in the smile that’d graced her lips.

            “You are so weird,” Elena had said at lunch once, after Berlin, in a lull.

            “What?”

            “She’s an assassin, just murdered Bill, and you still talk about her with this… passion about you. Don’t—Don’t you find that a bit strange?”

            It wasn’t so strange, was it? When things held someone’s interest, they tended to talk about it with passion, hoping to catch other people’s interest along the way. That’s all this was. And a job. A job, a job…

            …that required her to study the photograph, the files, until—

            Her hand was down her slacks. Eve had no recollection of unbuttoning them. She stared, coming back to herself, almost fascinated that her hand had done it of its own accord. It, too, swam with visions of Villanelle, wanted to indulge Eve with them and so they both gave in. They’d been studying Villanelle and Oksana too much. Reading the file over and over and over. The kills. Looking at the pictures of the victims they knew by heart. Thinking of her in those kills, brandishing the hairpin or the razor. Of her showering, bathing, dressing. Her mouth, her eyes, her hands, the one that’d held the sharp tip of a knife to Eve’s breastbone and threatened to push it through slowly.

            I want to know you, Eve thought, gasping now. I want to know all of you. What she felt when she killed someone. How she fucked. If she did it as messily as her kills. Her tongue would be skilled and rough between Eve’s thighs, tasting her, drawing it all out, and all the while her inaccessible eyes would look up at Eve. _I want to know you too._

Just an interest, Eve told herself, cursing and cursing, so close to coming. Just a fucking interest and a job and someone who ruined the most important parts of her life and awakened others. It required study and meditation and thinking of theories and of hands and eyes and breasts and lips and fingers on triggers and wrapped around knives and hairpins and buried inside people, inside Eve—


	5. The Killer Up Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell me exactly what you like, Eve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Colder Heavens by Blanco White

The bedroom was dark and quiet, the noise from the traffic below muted. Eve dropped her purse, shut her eyes, breathed deeply. Her heart was hammering, and she was certain her lipstick was blended with Villanelle’s from the heated, spontaneous kiss—no, _makeout_ —in an alleyway just a block away from where they’d had dinner.

            “You should come see me,” Villanelle had said over the phone, just three days ago, “if you’re wanting to get away.” Then, when Eve had said nothing, she’d added, “I’ll buy your ticket. Both ways.”

            To turn an offer like that down would be to have Villanelle in her apartment teasing her about refusing to accept the “really sweet deal.” So she’d said, “Okay,” packed a suitcase with more than a week’s worth of clothes, and headed to Heathrow the next morning. And in the last three days they’d toured the island, spent time by the poolside and the beach, where Villanelle braved the surf and Eve read her books. It was a nice time. Too good a time. They hadn’t done anything in the last three days, though the offers were there—cracked shower doors, hints from Villanelle, blatant statements: “Come to bed with me, Eve.”—but not acted upon, at least not until tonight.

            Behind her and around the corner, the heavy hotel door opened and Villanelle’s sneakers squeaked on the marble floor. A light flicked on. Then another. The bedroom light, however, stayed off, even when Villanelle was in the room.

            “Was my kiss so terrible that you had sprint off?” Villanelle asked after a long silence.

            No, Eve wanted to say. It was mind-blowing. I want more of it. The words stayed cemented to her tongue, long enough that Villanelle approached her, put a gentle hand on her upper arm. Then, Villanelle leaned to her and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Eve’s jaw.

            “Tell me,” Villanelle whispered, “exactly what you like, Eve.”

            She shut her eyes, released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She tilted her head to the right to meet Villanelle’s mouth with her own. When they parted to breathe she turned around in Villanelle’s half-embrace to kiss her full on. Eve said quietly, “French kissing.” A small, soft moan escaped her mouth when Villanelle slipped her tongue between Eve’s teeth. Eve pulled her closer by the lapels of her unzipped windbreaker. There were no jokes, no “Do you wish I was doing this much lower?”

            “Why are you being so serious?” Eve asked, tilting her head back when Villanelle made to kiss her throat.

            “This is a serious occasion, Eve.” She dragged tongue and teeth over Eve’s pulse.

            “God…” Eve trailed off, her brain trying to catch up. What _do_ I like? she wondered, letting her hands slip to Villanelle’s waist. The softness of her came to mind, how different kissing her was than kissing Niko. Her lips were fuller, softer, far more intoxicating. Eve said, “Put your hands on me,” and Villanelle responded, “Tell me where,” and so Eve moved them herself, to the backs of her thighs. Villanelle’s touch brought with it fire, something Niko’s could never do. Eve said, “Here,” her breathing shaky. She nosed along Villanelle’s jaw, kissed her there too while Villanelle’s hands slipped under the hem of her skirt, exploring, squeezing.

            “This feels oddly missionary,” Eve joked after a minute. Her face was buried against Villanelle’s neck, soft honey hair tickling her face, sweet, musky _La Villanelle_ crawling up her nose. They were still fully dressed, not even on the bed yet, hardly begun.

            “Then tell me more,” Villanelle said. Her seriousness in the moment wasn’t exactly strange—she’d been quite serious in previous encounters—but there were usually more jokes, more statements.

            “I…” Eve thought of where Villanelle’s hands were, of how easily they always undid buttons or unzipped zippers, even when they undressed in a fit of desperation. “I like when… when you undress me.”

            Villanelle pulled back, her hands coming to Eve’s front, to the pearl buttons on her collared shirt. She undid each one, taking her time, Eve feeling very much like a specimen under a microscope, under careful study. Villanelle was always looking at her in some way or another, had been at dinner, but there were moments when she actually _looked_. _Studied._

            The undressing was syrup. Villanelle tugged the sleeves free from Eve’s arms, tossed the shirt onto the floor. Reached for the zipper on the side of Eve’s skirt, slid it down, helped it from her waist until it fell down Eve’s legs and into a puddle at her feet. She waited, her breathing elevated. Eve said, “Everything,” practically igniting. She’s doing what I tell her!

            A shiver ran through her, exposed to the bedroom’s cooler air, but also at the way Villanelle gazed at her. Like she wanted nothing more than to take Eve into her arms and devour her. She was still dressed in her jeans, designer T-shirt—and it was ridiculous that the things existed in the first place—and windbreaker and sneakers. Eve wanted it to at least be fair. She told Villanelle a soft, “You too.” She didn’t mourn that Villanelle undressed herself quickly.

            Heavy silence passed, each of them studying the other. At last Villanelle raised her brows.

            Eve swallowed the nervous pebble in her throat. “Give me your hands,” she said. They were warm, the fingers long, agile, decorated with rings. They’ve held guns, knives, hairpins; held life, taken it. Touched herself, touched Eve. She wanted to kiss those fingers, kiss the palms and the knuckles and the tendons on the tops but instead she placed one on a breast, the other on a hip. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Just-Just touch me.” She leaned up and kissed Villanelle, sighing into it, at the thumbs brushing her nipples, at the hands that graced her ribs, her hips. They returned to the backs of her thighs and Eve groaned, kissed Villanelle harder.

            Then, softly but suddenly, Villanelle asked, “Do you like that kind of sex?”

            Eve paused. What kind? What do you mean? Fingertips ran over her lower back, brushed her tailbone. Oh, she realized, inhaling loudly. She’d heard it discussed among lovers and friends and strangers at bars, the idea unappealing despite the claims of how pleasurable it sometimes was. Eve shook her head. “No.” Perhaps, she thought now, kissing Villanelle again, the question was meant to spur things forward, and so she walked them both to the bed, lying on it at last, Villanelle leaning over her, straddling her waist.

            “Go on,” Villanelle said. Her lips were parted, her chest rising a little faster, her eyes dark, eager.

            “Are you getting off on this?” Eve asked. A short laugh escaped. “God, you’re serious.” She took a breath, cupped Villanelle’s face in her hands, kissed her and kissed her and led Villanelle’s lips to her breasts. She kissed them slowly, tongued her nipples, tugged at them with teeth, her sighs warming Eve’s skin. Eve moaned, said, “It’s good…” and, when she’d had enough, urged Villanelle lower.

            “Tell me,” Villanelle said breathlessly.

            The state of her was a punch to the gut. Eve wanted her to kiss lower, kiss her thighs—bite them, even—kiss between them. She jerked her chin down, managed, “There.”

            It was slow. Achingly slow. Villanelle kissed her hips, then her thighs, the touches delicate and careful. They shared a moan when Villanelle got her mouth on her.

            “Shit,” Eve said, hand reaching for Villanelle, burying itself in her hair to pull her impossibly closer. “Slow, go slow…” She groaned at Villanelle’s pleasured sound.

            She wanted the buildup.

            Once, Villanelle had been slow like this when Eve hadn’t wanted her to be, drawing everything out and up up up until Eve was trembling, dangling just _there_. The crash had been loud and afterwards Eve realized she’d enjoyed it immensely.

            Fingers slipped inside, curled.

            “Yes, baby,” Eve gasped. “Move… t-to the right…” She moaned at the touch. “Right there, right there…” The slowness of it prevailed. Eve thought the attention to her pleasure was not unlike the one Villanelle gave her kills, though instead of attuned to weaponry and subtlety and the way the target’s life drained from them she was attuned to Eve, repeating actions that made her gasp, or sigh, or nearly cry out, her own enjoyment apparent in the way she gripped Eve’s thighs, or held her hips down with a strong forearm.

            “Don’t stop, baby… don’t…”

            Villanelle groaned, something that sounded like Eve’s name.

            She came with a shudder and a cry, her fists in Villanelle’s hair, her thighs quaking. Villanelle’s ministrations became languid, stroking Eve through aftershocks. When they’d subsided she kissed back up, her breath quicker, her face red as if sunburnt, her mouth shining. A lovely mess, Eve thought, accepting the kisses, tasting herself on Villanelle’s lips.

            “What else?” Villanelle asked between breaths. Her eagerness, that part of her that seemed insatiable, never failed to excite Eve.

            She flipped them over, so that Villanelle was pinned beneath her. 

            "You tell me," Eve said.


	6. Vivre, Villanelle!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you happy?"

_“Are you happy?”_ says the woman on the screen. _“Excuse me, sir, are you happy?”_

To Villanelle’s left, the people she’d brought home with her—an American woman named Jean and her boyfriend Luis—are sound asleep, turned away from each other. Jean’s hand is close to Villanelle’s still-bare thigh.

            “You said you liked this stuff,” Villanelle whispers to her. “Didn’t you want to see Cannes in the sixties?” Jean only breathes deeply, her fingers twitching with a dream. Villanelle sighs, _tsks_. Though it was perfectly understandable why Jean was dead to the world. Earlier, Luis had gone out for a short meeting, giving them an hour to themselves. Villanelle leaned to Jean’s side of the bed, plucked the cigarette from her fingers, kissed her, and said, “Ride me.”

            Jean’s eyes went wide, her face visibly coloring. “I…”

            Villanelle twirled a strand of Jean’s dark hair around a finger. “You do it with him.”

            “It’ll be different,” Jean managed.

            “Mm-hmm.”

            Jean had been astride her lap for it, the pace slow until the end, and while she gasped and shuddered and Villanelle recovered from her own, smaller climax by kissing Jean’s breasts she whispered, “Thank you, Eve.”

            She stares at Jean for a moment longer, wanting to take her arm and drape it over her but instead she turns her attention back to the screen.

            _Chronicle of a Summer._ 1962\. Directed by Jean Rouch. She’d discovered it on pure accident in 2015. Having left her rather run-down apartment complex in search of other entertainment after subpar sex with the twenty-six-year-old male neighbor who fancied her, she’d gone to the theatre just five blocks away where they were having a classics and documentary night. She’d walked into the theatre in search of a French film and stumbled into the middle of _Chronicle of a Summer_ , something she would call a not-really-documentary-but-trying-to-be. Yet she’d been entranced by its film—black and white, some scenes more saturated than the others—and the shots and the cuts that left the viewer hanging and unsatisfied and dropped them into the middle of conversations. She’d stayed until the end, and then waited for it to start again.

            And then, because she could, she researched French cinema and the movement of _cinéma-vérité._ It was a new art form and it focused on reality, and in her research she’d discovered that _Chronicle of a Summer_ was asking “How can we live our most authentic lives?” But, it seemed, more than that, “What is happiness?” Which was, of course, the question the filmmakers wanted to address.

            _“Are you happy?”_

Villanelle has heard that question a number of times, from lovers and shrinks and even Konstantin, when he was around. _“Are you happy, Villanelle?”_ And her answer was always, “I’m satisfied.” But what was happiness? Killing her targets, watching their life fade away? Sleeping with women, burying her face between their thighs, feeling them submit to her? Spending her money on extravagant things? On Eve Polastri? If so, then she supposes she’s happy. But something is missing. It feels a lot like an Eve-shaped hole in her chest, a sort of unscratchable itch. Hence the company of Jean and Luis. The film on the TV.

            Jean shifts, inhales deeply, opens her eyes.

            “You’re missing the good parts,” Villanelle whispers.

            Jean chuckles. “Sorry.” Her voice is deep, not quite awake. “You tired me out.” At last that arm gets thrown over her and Jean’s thumb runs over her hip. Then she sits up, leans her head on Villanelle’s shoulder. “What is this?”

            “Some documentary.” Villanelle plucks the remote from the nightstand and lowers the volume. She tils her head to her left and capture’s Jean’s lips in a kiss. She cups her left breast, brushes the marks she’d made just hours earlier.

            “Wait,” Jean protests, a hand settling on Villanelle’s wrist.

            “He sleeps like a dead man.” Villanelle kisses her again, pushes Jean until she’s lying down underneath her and settles on her thigh. “Think you can be quiet?”

            Jean nods, eyes already dark.

            Villanelle leans over her the entire time, watching her twitch, her bucking hips, how she tenses and trembles and curses when orgasm hits. She kisses Jean afterwards, guides her mouth to a nipple, tells her “Bite it,” and comes apart against her thigh.

            On the screen, an argument breaks out among the young and the old regarding war.

 

—

_Les Raquetteurs_ projects throughout the room. Of her collection, Villanelle finds this to be the stranger one, its subject an obscure leisure that was popular in Quebec in the late fifties: snowshoeing. There were whole clubs for it, much like modern-day country clubs for the snobbish rich. She likes the way it was filmed, its home movie-like quality at certain parts.

            Soft lips kiss up from her elbow, lingering at her shoulder. Teeth nibble. Then, “This is a noisy film.”

            “You don’t like it?” asks Villanelle.

            Her affair, Diana, runs fingers over Villanelle’s sternum, between her breasts. “I was under the impression you wanted to do something else.” She traces just underneath one and Villanelle inhales a soft breath, remembering Eve’s tongue had traced there once. Diana says, “Do you do this with all the women you bring back home?”

            “You wanted to watch something.”

            “An actual movie, not whatever this is.”

            “Or were you talking about something else?” She turns her head to Diana. “Me, for example?” She slides her hand south, enjoying the way Diana’s features freeze, the way she swallows. “Would that be more interesting for you?”

            “Y-You’re serious?” Diana’s eyes shift to where Villanelle’s hand is.

            “Look at my face.” She slips fingers inside, moans softly. “Just watch me.”

            Later, Diana’s head finds its way onto Villanelle’s chest. Another documentary plays itself out. Villanelle wraps Diana in her arms, leans her cheek against her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.

 

—

Eve Polastri stands in front of Villanelle’s half-bookcase, studying the DVDs as if she were in a library. Her fingers trace the spines, occasionally pluck one from its spot to look it over. She’s wearing absolutely nothing, only holding a silk blanket against her front to ward off the chill from Villanelle’s cracked window. Villanelle waits patiently on the bed.

            “You like French documentaries,” Eve says. “There’s… a lot of them.” She traces those too. “Why these?”

            “I find them pleasing,” Villanelle says. “You can pick one, if you want.”

            Eve is silent for a moment. In the light, the marks on her shoulder from Villanelle’s teeth look harsher. She’d had Eve astride her lap, fingers buried deep inside her, palm pressed against her so that Eve could grind into it, and sank her teeth in Eve’s shoulder when she was in the middle of orgasm.

            “Oh, god,” Eve had gasped, “do it again…” So she’d bitten the same spot, built her up to another, licked her fingers clean after Eve’s head fell forward onto her chest.

            “Do you have a favorite?” Eve asks.

            “ _Chronicle of a Summer,_ ” Villanelle replies, and points to it.

            Eve fetches it, crawls back into bed. They watch it in silence, no comments from Eve save for a few about shot choices and scenery and abruptness, but she is completely immersed.

            “Can you stay for a while?” Villanelle asks suddenly. The main characters are at an outdoor café, talking about the war and Africa. “There’s more champagne in the fridge.”

            “I don’t have anywhere to be,” Eve says at last. She looks suddenly shy, but there is confidence about her, “Sure.”

            Villanelle throws an arm over Eve’s stomach and her chest swells even further when Eve allows her to keep it there.

 

—

“That one again, Villanelle?”

            “It’s nice. You have to at least admit that much.”

            “The director of photography did a nice job,” Konstantin agreed. “But you have to live at some point, Villanelle. Staying inside isn’t much of a life.”

            Villanelle turned to him, sipped champagne from her flute. “I have been living,” she said. “I’d dare to call my life authentic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank-you to my lovely groupchat (appropriately named Vegas) for giving me these ideas to write about. And to my readers for all your love and sticking with this. These are probably the shortest works I've written for this fandom; it was fun to see what kind of story I could tell in such a short space. I hope you've enjoyed this!
> 
> Kate/Alice xx


End file.
